


999

by TheMouthKing



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Bottom!Link, Duct Tape, Frotting, Gym shorts, M/M, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex, Top!Rhett, morphsuits, risk of getting caught, weird bondage scenarios
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 06:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14587173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMouthKing/pseuds/TheMouthKing
Summary: Getting ready to film GMM 999, the boys have a few moments alone. Shit gets real.





	999

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annabelle_leigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabelle_leigh/gifts), [thisiscyrene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiscyrene/gifts).



> This can be read with a sub!Link lens if you'd like, because it's sure as hell not top or dom Link. This is slutty needy Link at his finest. 
> 
> Welcome to my rhinky B-sides. Quick and dirty, minimally edited, and non-betaed. There may be some weirdness, but hey, I'm not trying to win any awards here. It was just in my head and needed to get out! 
> 
> Enjoy. >:)

“Rhett?”

“Mm, yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“I dunno what you're talking about.”

What Link's asking is obvious to Rhett, despite how he's playing dumb. Link's referring to the fact that his hand is moving over his chest without his having made the decision to touch himself like that. 

Duct tape at the wrists and hips and thighs, they're bound together. The gentlemanly thing to do, the least _awkward_ thing to do, would be to let Link lead. He's in front after all, it would only make sense to let him guide his own hands. Rhett's hands aren't usable pressed to the backs of Link’s, and logically it follows to take a backseat. Accept that he's not driving this vehicle. 

Except the temptation is irresistible. 

“Rhett--” Link chokes out the single word in protest as his left hand is made to rub over his nipples through the morphsuit, while the right slips up, Rhett's thick fingers pressing, guiding Link’s to touch, to explore the shape of his collarbone, the hollow of his own throat. 

“Link, this really isn't the time or the place,” Rhett admonishes him as if he's not the guiding force here. Blaming Link for what he’s doing to him. 

Link's face flushes hot and he's got a mind to tell Rhett off for this, but that long thumb is guiding his back and forth over a nipple and he can hardly think. 

This isn’t the first time things have _happened_ between them, but it has been a long time since the last time. They've been so busy between the show, family, and life that they haven't found time to come together in weeks. It’s not the fact that it’s happening that has him wound up and overwhelmed. It’s the fact that anyone could walk in. 

They've only got a few minutes before filming starts, left alone while the last few things are being set up. But apparently, they can’t be trusted to be unsupervised when the (arguably miniscule) buffer of distance between them is entirely removed. Like a loving planet orbiting its sun, it’s the gravity between them that holds them on their circling course, but when the distance is removed they can’t but crash together, an inevitable collision.

This is a strange kind of bondage. Taped together the way they are, Link can't move if Rhett doesn't want to. He could fight against him, but the result would be they'd topple to the ground and Link is afraid to fall like this. Afraid their combined weight would hurt one or both of them, that Rhett would pull something, that he wouldn't be able to catch himself. So in the end, Link lets Rhett lead. He tells himself it’s for self-preservation, that it’s not because it’s unspeakably hot to give up this control, to let Rhett’s hands guide him out here in the open, under the bright lights of the set, a half-dozen steps from the desk they film at every morning. 

“Gosh, Link, look at you…” Rhett’s attention is focused off to the right in the middle distance, trained on the monitor that isn’t filming but _is_ on, showing them what the camera sees. 

Showing them themselves.

“...so fucking horny you can’t even wait until you’re alone somewhere to start touchin’ on yourself.” 

Rhett’s breath is hot and damp at his neck and it’s doing nothing to help how his temperature’s rising. He’s sweating from the morphsuit, the duct tape, the bright lights and all six foot seven inches of Rhett pressed up against his back, taking liberties with his body.

Link exhales a long, shaky breath, and manages to find words, “I’m _not_ , Rhett, you know…”

But _he is_. Maybe he wasn’t, but he is now. He’s so horny he can barely see, and not having his glasses on isn’t helping one iota. 

“I think you’re a liar,” Rhett murmurs the words into the warmth of Link’s skin, the soft brush of his beard tickling at shorter man’s neck and ear as their hands together find Link’s neck, his throat, half lacing together as Rhett encourages Link to grasp. To test out how it might feel to choke himself gently, putting no pressure, not squeezing at all -- but there’s the hint. The suggestion of _more_ that leaves neither of them unscathed. 

Link doesn’t, can’t respond. Not verbally anyway. He’s drawn in too many directions, too distracted to figure out how to put it into words. He feels… something. Link knows what he feels, he’s felt it before, seen it, held it in his hand, his mouth, felt it sink into his body. And now it’s trapped, _they’re_ trapped so close and yet so far, the layers of their shorts and morphsuits preventing Link from getting the hot press of a feel he wants. Rhett’s hard and getting harder and suddenly, suddenly it’s getting hard not to move, not to squat, to try and bring his ass in closer contact to that impressive bulge. 

“...that’s what I thought,” Rhett rumbles, pleased with himself, not unaffected by what they’re doing. Not even close. Together, their hands that had been rubbing over Link’s chest slip down low over his belly, muscles taut and twitching with anticipation. With knowing just where this is going. 

Rhett’s hand is heavy as it drags Link’s down past the thick band of duct tape and lower, urges Link’s long fingers between his legs. Presses into the back of Link’s hand with the heel of his, encouraging more, pushing for pressure because they can’t have contact. Because they’re taped into their shorts, sealed into their morphsuits and helpless to find any place where skin can contact skin and forced to make do with what they can get. 

Link whimpers too loud and gives himself away, proves Rhett’s point further, and it earns him the loss of their hands at his throat as Rhett claps Link’s hand over his mouth and hastily hushes him, “Quiet or they’re gonna hear you and come back sooner… you got me, brother?”

Link doesn’t want that. All that matters, the only thing that matters in the whole world right now, is them managing to steal just another minute alone under the production lights. Just one minute, that’s all he needs, a minute and more friction. He’s not thinking clearly, isn’t thinking to _and then what_ , to the end where he’s come in his pants and has to go on with filming the bit like nothing’s wrong. Right now, that’s the furthest thing from his mind. All he can think of is this continuing. 

He nods against his own hand clapped over his mouth, the mix of their fingers together over his lips. He’ll be quiet, he promises. He’ll be so damn good if it means that this isn’t stopping just yet. 

“We’re walking to the desk,” Rhett announces, holding Link’s one hand still to silence him while the other’s encouraging Link to play with himself, to tease his stiffening cock and balls through all those layers of fabric. 

Rhett starts to walk and Link doesn’t and they falter, and Rhett repeats, “Walking. Left leg first, to the desk, c’mon.”

They make their way the six or so steps, clumsily moving together like a baby deer just figuring out how its legs work. It doesn’t help that even in platform shoes, they don’t quite line up right, that they’re both of them trying to coordinate walking when they’re so hard they can barely stand upright. That they make it there’s a miracle, and they make it just barely, Link almost rolling his ankle as he comes to bump up against it. 

Rhett’s right there to help catch and fall with him, and together they stumble forward and catch themselves, palms pressed to the desk, Rhett’s over top of Link’s. The force of falling into the desk rocks them together, grinds Rhett hard against Link’s ass though their clothes. 

Needy, Link’s head drops forward as he gives in, as he works out how to chase the feeling he’s after. How to rock back against Rhett without leverage, without the ability to get away, to brace himself the way he’d like to. They’re trapped flush together and he’s got to work within those confines, the thin slack they’d been granted with the duct tape bonds. There’s more give on their right legs and Link abuses that leeway, shimmies his hips just _so_ to squirm back and back for more, for anything, desperate for friction.

Link’s not alone in his need. It’s answered in the press he feels at his back, the awareness he has of Rhett leaning into him. Stuck together like this, it’s less about collision than it is about the slow grind. It’s subtle, miniscule, just the slow drag of millimeters of motion. It’s about pressure and warmth and being enveloped. It’s how starkly different the motion is from the breath at his neck, their bodies a gentle lap of waves from a quiet ocean, their breath an oncoming storm.

Link can’t come like this, but he needs to. That’s the single-minded goal of this, and he knows he ought to watch the wings to keep an eye out for the crew coming back but he’s so far out of it he’s got to hope that Rhett’s got him in more ways than one. That he’ll catch him if they do more than stumble.

“Please, Rhett,” Link gasps, proving Rhett right. _So fucking horny_ , so worked up, just a mindless needy thing desperate enough to run the risk of getting caught by their employees. 

Link can’t stop himself thinking what he’d like to have happen. He wants to tear his shorts free of the tape, yank them down, rip a hole in the front of his morphsuit to get at his aching cock. He wants Rhett to guide his hand as he touches himself, as he jerks himself off with his fingers and Rhett’s agonizingly slow pace. He wants to know what a handjob feels like when the hand is half his, half Rhett’s, when their bodies move like they were built this way, with two sets of arms and two sets of legs, two faces peering out of one giant head.

That’s not what he can get now, though. Now, his hand jumps, wanting, but Rhett stays it. All their hands still brace on the desk as they move, rutting together, Link’s head falling finally back against Rhett’s shoulder in a desperate bid for more contact as Rhett cranes to press a kiss against the skin of his neck. 

Rhett shifts their weight and leads Link’s hand back down, their hands trapped between Link’s body and the edge of the desk, a point of pressure for Link to move against. Rhett acts the guide, pressing to urge him to touch, careless that every passing second bumps his hand into the edge of the desk, that the end of this day will find his knuckles bruised. 

A glance at the monitor shows Rhett how undone Link already is, wet hair plastered to his face. They’re both sweating, drenched, their morphsuits sticking to their overheated bodies. Rhett wishes on everything holy and unholy that the cameras were recording, that what he sees in the viewfinder is something he could keep. 

He huffs a hot breath over Link’s neck and growls, “Cum for me, bo, we don’t got a lotta time…”

Rhett laces the fingers of their hands braced against the desk, squeezing Link’s hand in his as they entwine. 

“...cum in your fucking morphsuit gym shorts,” he grunts the words filthy in Link’s ear. 

But that’s not what happens next. Link’s answering whine, the twisting thrash of his body, of those squirming skinny hips in response to that goddamn dirty talk unexpectedly sends Rhett over the edge. Has him coming in his _own_ morphsuit gym shorts entirely untouched, from just the friction of their bodies and the polyester, from the sight of them in the viewfinder moving together like one. 

There’s a wet spot between them that’s impossible to ignore, the combination of sweat and cum plastering Link’s morphsuit to his ass obscenely. Lucky for them, no one can see it, what with Rhett pressed up against him, concealing what they’d done. 

_Most_ of what they’d done. 

Which wouldn’t be a problem. He’s close, after all, just needs another thirty seconds, another minute to chase that glowing tension that’s building low in his belly, shivering through his thighs. He’s not going to make it through this, he’s going to fall apart, collapse at Rhett’s feet under the desk they share, but he physically can’t. Taped to Rhett, he’s held up like a rag doll on a stand.

But coming isn’t in the cards for Link, at least not right now. He could cry when he hears Stevie’s voice approaching, when he knows the jig is up. They’ve gotta stop, gotta pull themselves together and get ready to film the conjoined twin challenge. Gotta figure out some way to have enough brainpower to do anything but _this._

Rhett yanks their hands from Link’s crotch so they’re not caught red handed, and shoves up off the desk, moving so fast Link’s head is spinning. He’s not okay, none of this is okay. How is he supposed to exist for however long until this take is complete and they’re set free to finish what they’d started?

“Alright guys, we’re ready… you still alright?” Stevie asks, questioning only when she clocks them, sweating already and looking more like they might at the end of the bit than the start of it. 

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Rhett chokes out, voice unusually thick, and clears his throat. He can’t begin to imagine how Link is going to make it through the next several minutes while they fight their way into the clothes they’ve got set up in challenge, when he’s barely managing to keep his urge to move under wraps. Rhett can feel Link’s body all but vibrating against his with the need to move, to pull at any slack they’ve got between them and get more of what he needs, friction, pull, pressure, a point of contact. 

“Let’s just get this done before we pull a muscle trying not to fall over or something.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Stevie agrees, a look of concern lingering on Link’s face. He’s been silent since she’d come back and she wonders. More than wonders, she suspects, damn near knows. 

“Alex, go turn the air up in here so the guys don’t die in those morphsuits,” Stevie takes a modicum of pity on them, stepping out of view just long enough for Rhett to help Link pull himself back together, push his messy hair out of the way, petting it back into place as he promises him that if he just gets through this next shoot that he’ll make this up to him any way he wants him to as soon as they can slip away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for liking, commenting and subscribing!


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